Best Interests
by Celestial Vermin
Summary: Nathan sincerely believes he's doing the right thing by getting Peter detained. He couldn't be more mistaken. // Peter & Nathan - centric. Chapter five is up.
1. Chapter 1

**Characters:** Peter and Nathan Petrelli, the entire clan Petrelli (Angela, Heidi, Simon, Monty and Claire) in later chapters.

**Rating: T** If you're old enough to watch the series, you should be old enough to read this, too.

**A/N:** Inspired by Nathan's line in the Fix. "I could have my mentally ill brother detained for his own safety."

**Reviews and comments are extremely welcome.**

* * *

Peter is a lousy liar. He has an ingrained urge to stick to the truth even when it can put him into unfavorable position. _Especially_ when it can put him into unfavorable position. More so, he is sadly out of practice. What is the source of this inexplicable honesty streak in the pedigree of equally rotten apples, all of whom take pride in keeping up appearances, façades and secrets of old, remains a mystery.

Naturally, this doesn't mean that Peter could and would not tell a lie to save his life, or recently, to save the world from himself. Everybody bends the truth sometimes, and even Saint Peter cannot defy this rule. But to his credit it must be admitted that the few times a lie escapes his mouth, he usually has an annoyingly altruistic motive up his sleeve. Peter is full to the brim of Concern, Compassion, Sympathy and other idealistic nonsense, the main subjects in the School of Life for Dreamers Anonymous.

Peter treats others as he would like to be treated; he's the epitome of the golden rule, the ultimate benefactor, if you wish. Unfortunately, the world doesn't give a crap about what Peter thinks. It's an ugly place, and it reeks of general wrongness. It kicks in the face those willing to open the door and letting it do so. Eat or be eaten: the first, foremost and the only law of the jungle.

Peter is 26, lives in the promised land of liars, traitors and backstabbers, and he has yet to grasp the reality.

At the moment Nathan can only thank his lucky stars, because may God have mercy on his soul if Peter is to find out about his plan before they reach their destination.

* * *

1.

Peter sits trustingly in the front seat, right next to Nathan, who's steering the wheel with passion. Peter keeps glancing out of the window, drawing in the endless sight of skyscrapers, streetlights and the flood of passers-by, all the while chatting vividly with his brother. Correction: Peter is chatting, Nathan's only dropping appropriate answers in the right places. Peter hardly notices this, or even if he does, he assumes it is because Nathan is busy pondering about the next, yet unknown scandal threatening his campaign, worrying about his image or simply disinterested in the topic at hand. This has never stopped Peter before, Nathan thinks, almost amused - almost. When his little brother gets excited, it is next to impossible to get him to shut up. Nathan has tried and failed miserably. For some reason Peter seems to assume that Nathan shares his enthusiasm about Things That Don't Really Matter. Assumes or _hopes_, it is an equally numbing experience for Nathan.

Even so, Nathan prefers idle chatter over complete silence. It prevents his mind wandering too much. Right now, Nathan does not want to think at all, period. He has everything planned and organized so perfectly it's almost poetry. He can afford to forget about the future for a short while. Later, he knows, he needs to be iron and ice and nerves of steel.

"Where are we goin', exactly?" Peter queries for the umpteenth time, when there are still plenty of miles to go. They are not even half-way there.

"That's only seventh time you asked," Nathan says.

"Yeah, I know," Peter shrugs. "Wouldn't need to, if you bothered to answer for _once_."

"I already told you we're meeting with Dr. Suresh and his colleague at LA. Apparently Suresh has better equipment there."

"But you didn't --"

"Does it really bother you not to know the exact address? You've never been good with maps, Pete. And you're not in the shape to drive anyway."

"I'm fine," Peter says expectedly, but Nathan can see he's not convinced himself. "You know, if we'd just taken off, we'd be there already."

Nathan's knuckles turn momentarily white as his fingers bore into the steering wheel. His eyes desert the road for a second or two. "You're free to treat... this--" 'this' is Nathan's pet term for flying, returning from dead and all that unnatural jazz, which has dared to ruin his carefully scheduled and programmed world. Unforgivable, really, "-- like it was actually a good thing. But don't expect me to join the club. I honestly want to forget about that crap. I'm running for Congress, for Christ's sake. I can't afford to fool around."

"And it's more important to be a head of a dead city rather than _save it_?" Peter's voice rises an octave or so like it always does when he's agitated.

"I wouldn't be here if I wasn't trying to prevent the catastrophe. Even if I still don't know whether the explosion is going to happen or whether you're just plain crazy." Peter glares at him, although Nathan can tell he's not really angry; it's part of the act they've been playing for years."I gave you my word, Pete. You can trust that I'm gonna keep it."

"Being Petrelli and all, you _have_ to" Peter grins, followed by a genuine smile so full of gratefulness and trust that Nathan would like to grab him from shoulders and shake hard, order him to rip the blinders from his eyes and wake up to the reality. If Nathan had a conscience, now would probably be the right time for it to start knocking on his door. With an ax. But true to his name, Nathan has learned to mute the tiny voice inside his head and pretend that the small sting he feels in his chest has everything to do with problematic digestive system and nothing to do with not playing by the rules. The only thing he can't ignore with practiced ease is Peter, but on the other hand Peter is the sole reason why he _has to_ do this before the situation runs completely out of control. Nathan is willing to do virtually anything to keep his little brother safe (preferably in one piece) and that, Nathan assures himself, justifies what he's about to do. After all, he has Peter's best interests at heart.

"You should get some sleep," Nathan says after Peter yawns so widely one could imagine him trying to swallow the sun.

"I'm okay."

"You look like hell," Nathan says. "Let me guess, you didn't eat anything before we left?"

"Forgot," Peter states. "We gonna take a break at some point anyway, I can grab some snacks. I could use the sugar rush."

"Or you could simply get some sleep."

"I just had two weeks worth of quality sleep," Peter says, yawning again. His eyes are hardly half-open. It's obvious he's fighting to stay awake. What's even more obvious, it's a losing fight.

"You were in coma," Nathan says dryly. "That doesn't count."

Peter does not comment that. He has apparently decided to focus all his strength to stay awake out of pure spite. Nathan knows that if he continues to press the matter, Peter will not fall asleep even if it is going to kill him - again. Peter puts a whole new spin to the word "stubborn". The ghost of their mother on Peter's youthful face reveals where he does get that from.

"I meant the jet," Peter says suddenly out of the blue.

"What are you talking about?" Nathan honestly has no idea.

"Your private jet. When I said 'taken off', I meant your plane. I thought you'd get it." Peter stifles a yawn and rubs his eyes absently. As if Nathan wouldn't notice.

"Oh." Nathan says, collecting his thoughts like a deck of cards. "Right. I considered that, but it's better if we keep... low profile. The world doesn't need to know we're planning to save it."

Silence claims the car for a couple of minutes.

"Would you have preferred the jet, then?" Nathan asks when he thinks he cannot take it anymore. "You don't look much better than when you were in the hospital, and I suppose you don't _feel_ better, either. I could pull right over, and you could hop on the backseat. Not exactly as comfortable as a plane, I admit, but this is as comfortable as it gets here."

Surprisingly, Peter does not argue. The even sound of his breath betrays he has already fallen asleep.

Nathan wipes cold sweat from his forehead, stops the vehicle and forsakes the resident Sleeping Beauty to make a couple of phone calls.

* * *

When they make their third pit stop somewhere in Colorado, Nathan needs to use force to wake Peter up. It takes a long while (and lots of prodding and poking) for Peter to join the living and he's definitely not giving up his comfort spot somewhere in the La-La-Land willingly. Nathan ushers Peter out of the car without mercy like the soldier he is, ordering him to buy something to eat while Nathan refuels the old faithful. Eventually it's Nathan who ends up buying Peter a cheese sandwich and shrimp for himself, because Peter's idea of lunch seems to be a bottle of Coke and a candy bar.

"I'm not hungry," Peter says tonelessly, but starts nibbling his sandwich anyway.

"Give me a break, Pete. You've ordered from the IV menu for two weeks. Ma gets a fit if you lose even half a pound."

"Since when you started listening to Ma?" Peter cocks his eyebrow in mock challenge, unimpressed. He downs the remains of his sandwich with soda.

"Whenever it fits me," Nathan retorts.

Soon Peter's fast asleep again, dead-to-the-world in the true Peter fashion, his head lolling and bobbing slightly from one side to another in the rhythm of their ride. Nathan sighs and loosens his tie. Even with the glow of street lights, the road ahead is pitch black from now on.

* * *

Peter stirs when he hears someone mentioning his name. It is not Nathan, he realizes, and it's not Dr. Suresh, either. He forces his droopy lids open and stretches his limbs, which have gone positively numb during his prolonged nap. The car isn't moving. Peter glances out of the window and spots his brother engaged in a conversation with a man in his late fifties and two younger men dressed in all white. Dr. Suresh is missing in action. There is something very curious about the setting.

Peter decides he wants out right now and attempts to open the door, only to find it won't budge. Stunned, he tries again, but the door is locked. Nathan must have done it accidentally, Peter reasons, unless this is his idea of a bad joke.

He knocks the glass several times to catch his brother's attention.

"Hey! Hey! HEY!"

Nathan turns to see Peter is awake, and Peter notices a crease deepen on Nathan's forehead. He raises his finger to signal Peter to wait a moment. Peter isn't overjoyed, but he has no choice, since he's trapped behind locks. Nathan says something and the men turn to look at Peter in unison. He's beginning to have an alarmingly bad feeling about this.

"Hey! C'mon!" Peter hammers the window with his fists furiously. He wants to know what's going on here.

Nathan sends a conspiratorial glance on his new pals, and strides towards the car. He reaches inside his pocket for the remote control to unlock the doors. Peter hurries out of the car as if it was burning and almost hits his head into the roof in the process.

"That's not Mohinder," Peter states the obvious and Nathan would like to congratulate him for his keen insight. "Where's Mohinder?"

"Dr. Suresh is inside. This is his colleague Dr. Amos Pierson," Nathan answers calmly, but for some reason he is avoiding Peter's intent gaze. The man called Pierson offers his hand for Peter to shake. Peter is about to grab it, until he realizes that the men dressed in white have moved on both sides of him. Instinctively, he backs off, his eyes huge like dinner plates.

"What the hell's going on, Nathan?" Peter asks.

"Why won't we just go inside, Pete?" Nathan suggests. Their eyes lock for a moment and Peter knows instantly that he has been set up, that this is a trap, that there is no Dr. Suresh here nor there ever was. He turns on his heels, meaning to taste the better part of valor, but the men grab him by arms and prevent him from escaping.

"Nathan?" Peter's voice betrays anger, shock and sheer horror of the situation. Whatever this is, it's definitely _not_ found on his top-ten-things-to-do list. "Nathan, what's going on?"

Nathan closes his eyes, searching for the right combination of truths and lies to be delivered in one neat packet.

"You are sick, Pete. I'm trying to help you, these men are trying to help you."

"What are you talkin' about, I'm not sick anymore!" Panicked, Peter tries to squirm free, but it gives his capturers only a reason to strengthen their iron grip.

"Yes you are. You are seeing and hearing things that don't exist, Pete. You have hallucinations and weird ideas. Hell, you even jumped off the roof to prove _my_ point - twice. But it's okay, these men take good care of you, make sure you don't harm yourself anymore."

Peter ceases his fruitless struggle for a moment. He wants to understand. He _needs_ to understand.

"Why are you doing this, Nathan?" he asks, trembling from emotional merry-go-round. He's coming apart right there, powerless and defeated, betrayed by his own brother, who he loves even now more than he can ever begin to comprehend.

"Because you are my brother, and I think this is for the best," Nathan says, and for a fleeting moment Peter imagines he catches something akin a tear in Nathan's brown eyes.

"Whose best?" Peter questions quietly.

"Believe it or not, I'm doing this for you, Pete," Nathan says and nods to Dr. Pierson. "Do I need to sign any more forms or is this done?"

"Don't do this, Nathan! Nathan! Please, don't do this!" Peter screams as the nurses start dragging him away. "Nathan! Don't do this! Don't leave me here! Nathan!"

"He's hysterical. Valium, 10mg," someone cuts in, but Peter sees only Nathan.

"I'm sorry Pete," Nathan mouths before walking back to the car.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Characters:** Peter and Nathan Petrelli, the entire clan Petrelli (Angela, Heidi, Simon, Monty and Claire) in later chapters.

**Rating: T** (If you're old enough to watch the series, you should be old enough to read this, too.)

**A/N:** Inspired by Nathan's line in the Fix. "I could have my mentally ill brother detained for his own safety."

**Reviews and comments are extremely welcome.**

* * *

Some things are sacred. Like the actuality that Nathan Petrelli is bound to be always right, even when the facts dare to contradict this reality. But Nathan knows better than to be bothered about what the facts state. No, Nathan is never wrong. World is.

By the same reasoning, Nathan can forgive himself for having his little brother institutionalized. After all, Peter _is_ crazy. Not I-need-to-be-locked-behind-the-bars-cause-I-might-do-some-crazy-shit (although lately, Peter has tested this category _way_ too often) crazy, but rather I-need-to-be-locked-behind-the-bars-cause-I-might-save-the-world crazy. Honestly, what self-respecting, sane person wants to save the world? Nathan shudders at the thought. The world doesn't want to be saved. It wants to be left alone.

Nathan considers giving Dr. Pierson a call to check that Peter's settled down all nicely, but decides that it's too early for conclusions. He has dozens of various handshaking and toothy smile sessions in his daily program today, including a drinks meeting with one of his biggest sponsors right after Mr. Linderman. He needs to be one hundred and ten percent there, and if he contacts Palmwood Care in Los Angeles to ask Peter's latest, he's done for. Nathan knows he can't afford his mind to linger in Peter more than is healthy. After all, the Peter Incident has now officially been taken care of and swept under the mattress with other issues, so Nathan should just pat himself on back and congratulate himself for taking out two birds with but one stone: ensuring his little brother's safety and securing his ever-growing chance of becoming a Congressman.

Yes, Peter is in good hands. Peter is flourishing.

* * *

2.

Peter's lying in his bed with his eyes closed in a state of semi-consciousness, heavily drugged. At the moment he doesn't feel too bad about being here. More precisely, he doesn't feel a thing. It's quite comfortable to just be, be, be, without emotions interfering his blissful being. It's dull and peaceful and Peter finds it... well, he can't quite decide what he thinks of it, since his mind is murky and slow for reasons he doesn't understand. He's not home, but it's okay, because everything's okay and nice and soothing and he can sleep whenever he wishes to, which is most of the time.

Food is fantastic. Everything's just fantastic, although Peter does not like the frequency he soils himself with soup or sauce or whatever is on the menu, because his hands are not cooperating for some reason. Perhaps it is because of how time has started to warp, Peter thinks knowingly, moving either too fast or too slow but never quite the ordinary rate, and Peter wonders why he seems to be the only one to notice. It may have something to do with him being special, because he _is_ special, even if his hands have forgotten how to keep spoon or fork steady so he doesn't drop food on his lap. He is so special it's just fantastic and he could sleep now to celebrate the fact but he likes being half-awake, too, because it feels nice and he can keep on thinking how special and wonderful it is.

His mind wanders idly and he thinks of his brother, Nathan. He remembers that Nathan brought him here, which is nice and fantastic, although Nathan's not here now, is he, so he forgets about Nathan soon. His mind is not very focused these days, but it doesn't matter because he's special, he's really something, and he smiles knowingly, happy to be there without real emotions, because these chemical ones seem much better in contrast, not complicated or biased at all, and it's so right it's almost wrong which makes Peter want to embrace the entire world. He thinks of Nathan again and forgets him, and his mind drifts back and forth until he falls soundly asleep and has amazingly vivid dreams he cannot remember later.

* * *

The people at Palmwood Care (Peter thinks it's an awesome name, it feels just right, doesn't it?) are nice, well, almost everybody, but the ones who talk to Peter most often are all wonderful, although Peter doesn't like it when they prick needles into him and he tries to assure them that he would swallow his pills now, that he would prefer pills over needles even if the needles don't hurt all that much. But they keep on saying it's for his own good, so it probably is, because he just doesn't know, even though he's special.

They have promised that he can join painting group or music listening group later on, but Peter is happy as he is in his own small world. He thinks that painting could be nice, though, because - well, just because. There is not much to do out here, and although most of the time it does not bother him at all because time moves differently here, even if others don't realize it, sometimes he has a fleeting feeling that he's supposed to do something, and it puzzles him, because he cannot think what it is. He can't remember. It's like swimming in murky waters, trying to dive and see the bottom even though there's no way to see it. If there even is a bottom.

He tries to talk to other people about it, but they don't get it. It frustrates him, because he doesn't really get it either, but at least he tries. There is this one time he gets so agitated and anxious that they decide to give him a shot of something and take him back to his bed, and then he just needs to sleep his confusion away and when he wakes up he doesn't understand what all that fuss was about.

This is his life now.

* * *

Peter hears footsteps in the corridor becoming more louder and pronounced. He's not hungry (although he rarely is) so it can't be someone coming to drag him out of his bed for breakfast, lunch, dinner or whatever excuse they have for eating. It can't be Nathan, either, because his steps sound different, and well, Nathan's not here. He's never been here. Peter misses Nathan, but most of the time he doesn't remember or care or both.

"Peter? Are you awake?" A dark-skinned, middle-aged nurse who goes by name Whithers peeks at him by the entrance.

"Yeah," Peter answers, smiling shyly to nothing in particular.

"We have your brother on the phone. Would you like to talk to him?"

"Nathan?" Peter asks as if to make sure that the world hasn't sprouted additional brothers for him overnight.

"Yes, it's Nathan. Would you like to talk to him?"

"Yeah." Peter nods. "Can I have something to drink? I'm thirsty."

The nurse automatically glances the sink and the untouchable plaster mugs piled on it, not at all surprised about the lack of initiativity.

"Of course, but would you like to talk to your brother first?"

"Okay." Peter jumps from his bed, kicks the sandals in his feet and follows the nurse downstairs. The nurse takes him into a small room with phone. He offers Peter the handset, expectantly. When Peter finally understands to grab it, the nurse turns to leave the room. Peter takes two steps after her.

"Peter, your brother is on the phone. Don't you want to talk with him?"

"Oh." Peter notices the handset he's carrying. "Oh, yeah. Nathan. Yeah."

The nurse smiles and closes the door behind him. She finds Peter cute, albeit totally clueless.

"Peter?" Nathan asks after listening to his brother's breathing for one long minute. "You there?"

"Yeah."

"You didn't say anything, I wasn't sure... I thought... never mind."

Silence.

"Peter?"

"Yeah."

"Are you mad at me?" God knows_ he_ would be, locked up in a facility like that. Not that Palmwood Care isn't one of the best and most expensive private clinics out there - private being the key word - but even so, it has one purpose only. Containment; to keep people with their little big problems inside, because the world outside is busy.

"Mad?" Nathan can hardly believe his ears, because it sounds as if Peter just _chuckled_. "Why?" No, he doesn't seem angry or sarcastic at all, which disturbs Nathan to no end.

"Well, I thought... are they treating you right?"

Peter says something which honestly cannot be English and probably not any language known to man, followed by, "I had it covered. It's there."

"What is?" Nathan's almost afraid to ask.

Again Peter spouts some gibberish. It's really hard to recognize the words from his brother's drug-hazed slur.

"Peter, listen to me. I'm flying there later this week," Nathan decides on the spot.

"Okay. Just don't come tomorrow, okay?"

"Why's that?" Nathan asks, astonished.

"Painting's tomorrow," Peter states and hangs up.

Nathan stares at his cell phone dumbstruck for several minutes, doing some very fast and furious thinking before speed-dialing the clinic again.

* * *

"What the hell have you done to my brother?"

"Mr. Petrelli, Peter was very anxious and disoriented when he arrived here, so it was necessary to sedate him. We decided on --" Dr. Pierson gives a respective list of sedatives and antidepressants and other shifty-sounding drugs, "-- which has improved Peter's condition considerably. He hasn't tried to escape anymore and he seems to be adjusting nicely."

"I can imagine," Nathan says. "I'm guessing he hardly remembers how to walk. Was it really necessarily to turn him into a drug store?"

Nathan can hear Dr. Pierson sigh in the other end.

"From my experience, it is best for the patients to be, ah, less _involved_ during the first days here. Being brought into a new place with unfamiliar faces is usually a frightening and stressful experience. That is why we start with heavier medication. Once the patient has become accustomed to the new environment and the routines, we cut the dosage down."

"No, I need you to stop turning my brother into an idiot right _now_," Nathan says with forced calmness, his voice low like a growl. "I couldn't understand half of what he was babbling and the rest didn't make sense. Hell, I think he hardly recognized me, and I surely didn't recognize _him_. I wanted my brother to get help for his... illness, not _lose it_ completely."

"I assure you I understand your concern. However, your brother is seriously ill, and it would be unwise to cut his medication too radically. He's still having both auditory and visual hallucinations despite the psychosis medication --"

"What?"

"-- but his overall condition seems to be improving. Tomorrow we will start with --" once again Dr. Pierson bombards Nathan with a list of drugs and dosages. Nathan couldn't care less about the technical crap. He's extremely worried - no, make that disturbed - to hear that Peter has hallucinations for _real, _and it makes him uncomfortable. He's even starting to question the wisdom of his decision... no, not going there.

One thing is for certain, though. Nathan will fly to see Peter tomorrow, whether he's painting or not.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Characters:** Peter and Nathan Petrelli, teeny tiny bit of Heidi in this chapter

**Rating: T** If you're old enough to watch the series, you should be old enough to read this, too.

**A/N:** Inspired by Nathan's line in the Fix. "I could have my mentally ill brother detained for his own safety."

**Reviews and comments are extremely welcome.**

* * *

Peter has a bad habit of thinking on his feet. Nathan likes to joke often that Peter doesn't think at all, but it's not true. Peter thinks with his heart rather than his head. And it's Peter's big heart that gets him in trouble every time.

* * *

3.

When they walk Peter to the visitor room where Nathan has waited for the past 20 minutes, Nathan almost pops a vein in an attempt to prevent himself from embracing and strangling Peter at the same time. This is not the right moment to get overly emotional, he has to remind himself. He conjures his stoic warrior mask a little too late to conceal all the damage, but it has to do.

"I am sorry, Mr. Petrelli, he didn't want to skip the painting group," one of the male nurses explains apologetically as if Peter wasn't present. In all fairness, that's not too far from the truth. "We had to... negotiate with your brother to get him here."

"I see," Nathan mutters, not being able to take his eyes off the stranger that possesses the face of his brother. Peter's wearing light blue pajamas and a dressing gown of the same sickly shade, radiating that eerie hospital fashion sense vibe all around. His dark brown hair hangs limply on his face as if making a statement. Nathan can't even count the times he has subtly and not-so-subtly suggested Peter get a decent haircut, because, let's admit it, his current style looks ridiculous and would be less out of place on someone on his teens. But no amount of ridicule nor brotherly jibes have ever managed to change Peter's mind about that one. Persuasion has no power over the force of nature that is Peter.

Peter takes a seat opposite Nathan, crossing his arms, not bothering to lift his stare from the table between them. Nathan recognizes the look on Peter's face all too well, and his heart skips a beat, because he knows that part of old Peter is still there, only hiding. Peter's pouting. It's the infamous 'You're-gonna-be-sorry' look, closely related to 'I'm-gonna-make-you-pay' death stare, which Peter hardly ever uses, because Peter is Peter and vengeance doesn't become him.

"How you been, Pete?" Nathan asks casually, testing the waters.

Peter doesn't answer. He keeps on staring the table with great interest. You wouldn't think how intriguing mere tables can be.

"Heidi sends her love. Says she really misses you. She might even come for a visit, assuming you'd like to see her, too."

No answer.

Nathan clears his throat. "Simon and Monty don't know you're here. I couldn't -- well, we both, Heidi and I, decided that it would be better if... they don't need to deal with this."

"There's a shocker," Peter says, still not meeting Nathan's gaze.

"Do you think this is easy for me? Do you think I actually enjoy this?" Nathan manages to keep his voice even.

"Do you?" Their eyes meet and Nathan knows that Peter's never going to forgive this one. Forget, with luck, but forgive? Not a chance.

Nathan is momentarily at loss of words, but it doesn't matter, because Peter's got plenty and he isn't particularly shy about using them.

"You son-of-a-bitch sold me. AGAIN. As if it wasn't enough for you to declare to half the world your little brother is mental, you actually have to take one step further and get me locked in some psycho house and throw away the key."

"It's nice to see the drugs wearing off," Nathan says coolly.

"Apparently ruining my reputation's not enough. You had to rip away my freedom too. But yeah, I keep forgetting, it's for my own good, right, Nathan? Isn't it always? Because that's what you do, keep shooting people in the back and tell them it's because you have their best interests at heart. Know what Nathan? You don't_ have_ a heart. You're so full of your shit I gotta wonder how come your head doesn't just explode. Do you think I haven't noticed how selfish bastard you've become? Just because I play along, doesn't mean I don't get it. Do you think I'm that stupid, huh? Do you, Nathan?"

Their eyes lock again, in challenge.

"You're not yourself," Nathan states, unblinkingly, and he knows he's right, because Peter's eyes have an uncharacteristically nasty, almost feverish gleam. He's never seen his brother so beyond himself, not even when they've had drunken brotherly quarrels - all in the name of good fun - in the past. "Calm down, Peter."

"Oh really? Because you've had me pumped up with meds, right. Doesn't mean I can't speak my mind, does it? I'm sick of you lying, I'm sick of you. And I'm not the only one. Gonna lock Heidi here too, when she learns the truth? That you can't pass a woman walking on two legs without _screwing her_? Ever think about what would happen if she stopped playing stupid like me?"

"You are not in control of yourself," Nathan says, his hands positively itching to throttle his brother. He has never imagined Peter being capable of going so low, drugs or no. "And don't ever talk about Heidi like that again. You leave her out of this, do you hear?"

"Oh, but like you said, I'm not in control. I can say what I want, and I can't be even held responsible, because I'm crazy. Thanks to _you_."

There's a knock on the door and a male nurse steps in.

"Is everything all right?"

"Yeah, perfectly, I'm just letting by dear brother know what an asshole he is," Peter says matter-of-factly.

"It's okay," Nathan says to the nurse.

"I heard raised voices..." the nurse informs, unsure whether he should interfere or just play deaf.

You and the rest of the world, Nathan thinks. "It's okay," he repeats. "We are just having a chatty family moment here. Everything's fine."

The nurse nods curtly, giving that unmistakable 'we are outside, should you need us' look, and disappears out of the door.

"Are you done?" Nathan turns to look at Peter, who's playing with his overlong bangs.

"Depends."

"On what?"

"When are you gonna get me out of here?"

Nathan does not answer straight away, even though he has awaited that particular question to escape Peter's lips ever since he arrived. Well, two can play this game. "Depends."

"On what?"

"When are you going to behave yourself?"

Peter rolls his eyes as if unable to believe what he just heard.

"Anyone ever tell you're an idiot, Nathan?"

Nathan flashes a fake smile.

"Many times a day. But I take pride in not letting the world to know."

Peter sighs and suddenly he's more of his old self and less of a jerk who just happens to look like him.

"I wanna get out of here. I need to get out of here. I'm going crazy. It's not just the drugs, I think -- it's like they're watching me. I know what you think, Nathan, but I swear there's more to it."

"Peter, it's their job to keep an eye on you. That's what they're being paid for."

"I _know_," Peter says. "Once upon a time there was a nurse, remember? But like I said, it's not just that."

"If you start talking about wacky experiments and radio receiver in your tooth, you can be pretty sure you're not getting out anytime soon," Nathan says, trying to keep a straight face.

"Sorry, I forgot my tinfoil hat home," Peter says, slightly irritated. "Nathan, I'm serious about this. I'm not imagining things. You gotta believe me. I think..." Peter scans suspiciously the room, which is empty save for him and his brother, and drops his voice to a husky whisper, "... Dr. Pierson is one of them. One of _us_. And he's not the only one. When he's in the same room, I got this weird feeling. I can't explain it, really, I just _know_ it. He has an ability, I just don't know what it is. Yet."

Nathan raises his palm warningly. "Whoa, Peter. We're not going there. You better not talk about these things here, ever. Do you understand? Do you _understand_? It's not safe. You only end up harming yourself, and make it harder for me to get you out."

"Yeah, when was that again?"

Nathan decides it's better to act as if he didn't hear that. A change of subject is in order.

"Is there anything you'd like to have?"

"How about my freedom?"

"From your apartment. CDs, books, clothes? _Hair gel_?"

Peter thinks only a second.

"My cell phone."

"Uh, I don't think you're allowed to have those."

"I _know_. I know they took it from me the first day, even though I don't remember any of it. But I thought you could get it back, you're the lawyer here. Think of something."

"No." Nathan is adamant. "I'm sorry Peter, but that is not an option."

"Fine. How 'bout just putting a gun in my mouth and pulling the trigger, because you're killing me already."

"That's it," Nathan snaps and gets up so quickly that his chair almost falls over. "Nurse? We're done here."

"Yeah, just get out of here to carry on your glamorous life," Peter spits, seething. If he wasn't so full of rage and a variety of chemical products, he would probably bawl his eyes out. But as it is, he just wishes his brother ill, and storms out of the door.

* * *

"That was exactly what we were afraid would happen," Dr. Pierson says apologetically. "He's medication was cut too rapidly. These things are not treated overnight, Mr. Petrelli. Peter is confused about his condition himself; he is frightened. His feelings of insecurity and uncertainty manifest themselves as uncontrollable anger issues and violent behavior. He is a threat to himself and to others, as well. We should bring up the dosage, for his own good."

Nathan sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose. He feels one hell of a migraine coming.

"I'm not entirely sure if that is the best option, Doctor," Nathan says. He's exhausted. He doesn't want to argue about Peter's medication or anything else. He wants to fly home, give Heidi a kiss, pat boys in the head and fall asleep, point blank.

"Based on my 31-year career as a psychiatrist, I believe it is."

Nathan hates it when people pull the career card out of their hat. Well, he can do that, too.

"I've known my brother for 26 years," he says, aggravated. Many of those years he was not present in Peter's life, but he conveniently fails to mention this to Dr. Pierson. "I'd like to believe_ I_ know what's best for him."

"Would he be here, if that was entirely true?" Dr. Pierson queries. Nathan can almost hear the irony hit its mark.

"Fine, raise the dosage," he finally gives in. Maybe it's better if Peter doesn't think too much. Nothing good has ever come out of it, anyway. "As long as you don't turn him into a zombie. I want my brother to stay here on Earth, get it?"

"Yes, yes, of course." Dr. Pierson smiles and picks a stack of papers from his desk. "It is good to know that Peter has caring relatives with his best interests at heart."

* * *

"How was your day?" Heidi rolls her wheelchair closer to touch Nathan's arm. She studies her husband's joyless expression and tight posture for a moment. "That bad?"

"Oh, that bad." Nathan removes his coat and throws it on the shiny hardwood floor. Let the maid take care of it, that's what she's here for.

"Do you wanna talk about it?" Heidi cocks her head slightly, her icy blue eyes boring into Nathan's.

"I need a drink, not psychoanalysis," Nathan sighs. It's days like these that Nathan almost understands his father's decision to turn his back to the world.

"Is it Peter?"

"Yeah. They had to up his dosage, said it was necessary. He was... not himself today."

Heidi reaches out to touch Nathan's face sympathetically.

"I'm so sorry, Nathan... for you, for him... I know what you mean to each other. It's just so hard to imagine him..."

"Crazy?" Nathan helps.

"_Off the weather_," Heidi says, and Nathan has to laugh in spite of himself. That's a good one. Trust Heidi to come up with ways to make him smile even when there is nothing to smile for. That is one of the reasons he loves his wife dearly, and also one of the reasons why it is unbearable not being able to touch her like a married man should.

"Off the weather is good. He was saying some very un-Peterish things there."

"Is it the drugs?"

For a moment Nathan considers telling Heidi everything. How running for Congress has turned him into a monster who's willing to lock up his own brother in a loony house, because he thinks it's the easiest way to keep him safe. But that would require him stop lying himself first, and that is something he cannot do.

Nathan nods slowly.

"Yeah, it's the drugs. But he's better with them than without. At least he won't harm himself."

"I'm so sorry," Heidi says again, a single tear sliding down her cheek. An only child, Heidi has always felt Peter's like a younger brother to her.

"Don't. It's alright." Nathan closes his eyes, fingering his tie. The migraine is back with a vengeance. "I'll go see the boys and after that I'm gonna hit the bed."

* * *

Peter wishes he hadn't yelled at Nathan.

Peter wishes many things.

Because Nathan has gone away, and Peter doesn't know if he's going to see him again any time soon.

It makes him sad, because there are things Peter wishes to tell Nathan and it's hard to do that when Nathan is not around. Without Nathan Peter doesn't feel special anymore. He feels lost and lonely even with all these nice people around him and he wants to go home. He wants to be with Nathan. Nathan is home. But instead they make him stay here and they don't even allow him pens and paper. They say he needs to calm himself down and he doesn't get it because he _is_ calm, he's just sad, too.

It's not wrong to have emotions, is it?

But they take them away, just in case, and when they're done, Peter is an empty husk floating somewhere in mindscape.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**Characters:** Peter and Nathan Petrelli, the entire clan Petrelli (Angela, Heidi, Simon, Monty and Claire) in later chapters.

**Rating: T** If you're old enough to watch the series, you should be old enough to read this, too.

**A/N:** Inspired by Nathan's line in the Fix. "I could have my mentally ill brother detained for his own safety."

**Reviews and comments are extremely welcome.**

* * *

Angela Petrelli is a remarkable woman by any standards, even by her own, and that is saying some. Those who know her well - and there are only a handful of people who dare to claim that prerogative - might say she has an almost uncanny knack for shaping people like a potter molds clay. Not only does she make people do what she wants, she makes _them_ want it, too.

It is only fitting that her two sons are equally remarkable, albeit in ways very different from her, and different from each other as well. It is destiny forged in blood, passed from one grand generation to another in an amok for evolution, not against it.

After more than sixty years Angela may be spent by the race, but never quite enough to let go, because she has grown too attached to the strings to call it a day. The day _will_ come when her sons are strong enough to take her place, and she'll be finally able to breathe free, and then it's someone else's turn to bear the weight of the world on their shoulders. But until then, she sticks to her status of power possessively like a jealous lover.

Angela has learned to adapt to the world instead of fighting it. She does not break the rules; she bends them or rewrites an entire rulebook of her own. She's not afraid of getting her hands dirty. It is the only way to win, even if it means giving up the best part of her.

In the end, there's but one thing left for Angela that remains constant, and it is her love for her sons. And though she would readily slap in the face of anyone foolish enough to call her weak, she has a soft spot wherever Peter is concerned. Because even the almighty Angela is afraid of death. Not of her own, but of her son's.

* * *

4.

It's Saturday night, and Nathan spends quality time in his study with a bottle of Bourbon, pretending to be busy. This has nothing to do with his brother, Nathan assures himself. After all, binge drinking for the sake of itself has long, noble traditions in the history of mankind - not that he's drunk, or even planning to be.

Nathan let's his mind wander a bit. He thinks about his speech tomorrow in yet another money-grubbing event - his writer better be up to it... of two-percent drop in the polls (Nathan has no idea what caused the notch this time)... of his mother, who surprisingly called him earlier this day only to send him her best regards, which is odd, since Angela is above mere social calls. Like Nathan, she is too effective to allow herself such trivialities. Apparently there's a first time for everything.

Speaking of the devil...

Nathan would recognize the familiar clack of her mother's heels in his sleep. Only Angela Petrelli is capable of projecting that much self-importance to her walk. And soon enough, Angela storms in, clad from head to toe in that ever-elusive Upper Manhattan fashion like only she can. A woman in her position has no excuse to show her mileage, as she would put it, but rather wear her years with pride and certain satisfaction.

"Hello, Nathan," Angela says, casually setting her black purse on Nathan's desk. Her smile is almost enough to bring down the temperature.

"What are you doing here this time at night, Ma?" Nathan groans.

"You could even try to pretend you're happy to see me," Angela says, still smiling that truly frightening, honeyed smile. "But I'm not here to give you a lecture about common courtesy. Actually, it's about your brother."

Nathan shifts _very_ uncomfortably in his chair. "What about him?"

"I have tried to contact Peter for several times now to no avail. His cell phone appears to be closed, and he hasn't visited his apartment for at least six days since he woke up from coma."

Six days. Wow, that's awfully specific. "And you know this because...?"

"I am his mother, and as a mother I have the right to be worried," Angela dodges the question like a trained professional. "Especially since I saw him come around after giving us such a fright for two weeks. Poor boy was out of his mind. I had to push him back to his bed to prevent him from leaving straight away." She shakes her head. "It took me only two minutes to find a doctor, and he had already disappeared."

"He's becoming an expert in pulling crazy stunts," Nathan confirms.

"So it would seem," Angela says calmly, tracing the edge of the desk with her long painted fingernail. "Which brings me to you. You wouldn't have happened to seen Peter, would you, Nathan?"

"After he released himself from the hospital, unluckily no," Nathan lies through his teeth.

"Well, that is unfortunate," Angela says. "Because as we both know, Peter is very sensitive and if he would end up facing a wrong... scenery in his current state, there's no telling what it might do to him."

Nathan petrifies, unable to utter a single word. She _knows_.

"It would not be _safe_ for him," his mother continues, taking Nathan's hand in hers, her voice slightly lower and more precise than usually. "It would destroy him, Nathan. He could not take it, _do you understand_?"

Nathan can only nod curtly. Yes, he understands. Yes, he must get Peter --

"Nathan, are you still working -- ?" Heidi's shape emerges from the corridor and whatever spell is holding Nathan in its grasp, breaks. "Oh. Hi." She beams at Angela, who returns a very forced smile at her. "I thought I heard voices here, but I didn't figure out who Nathan would keep awake in the middle of the night. It's so nice to see you, Angela."

"Always a pleasure, Heidi," Angela says, although the mean glint in her eyes reveals that pleasure is the last thing in her mind.

"I hope I wasn't interrupting anything."

"Of course not, dear," Angela says smoothly.

Nathan gives her mother a nasty look.

"Actually, Ma was just leaving," Nathan says.

It's Angela's turn to give Nathan the _Look_.

"In fact, I was. I cannot keep Edward -- " Edward is her driver "-- waiting any longer." She picks her purse and walks to the entrance her head held high. "You and Heidi have a good night."

Nathan cringes. He hates the way his mother uses his wife's name as if it was an unworthy chapter in family Petrelli chronicle. The truth is that in Angela's opinion _any_ woman is beneath Nathan Petrelli - especially a _townie_ from Minneapolis.

"I think it's almost past your bedtime," Heidi teases him, rubbing his hand affectionately.

"I've still got some work to do," Nathan mutters.

She spots the bottle on his desk, and she chuckles softly.

"Yes, I see."

Nathan makes a mental note that it is not a good idea to drop even a seemingly innocent lie when evidence is still visible. A lesson he should have learned long ago.

"Ah, what the hell. Let's go to bed."

* * *

"Come again?" Nathan stares at his cell phone incredulously before setting it back against his ear. He wonders if he actually misheard the man on the other end. He half wishes he would have.

"During the painting therapy group session today, your brother created a self portrait, showing himself dead," Dr. Pierson explains calmly.

Nathan places a palm on his forehead.

"_Great_. Could you fax it to me? Or send it in email. I'd like to see it."

Dr. Pierson does not answer straight away.

"Are you certain, Mr. Petrelli? The painting... It's... quite detailed and macabre. It could be best if --"

"Concentrate on treating my brother, Doctor, and let me take care of myself. I want to know exactly what's going on in his mind."

"As you wish," Dr. Pierson gives in without putting much of a fight. After all, Nathan is the one paying Peter's treatment. It's not wise to bite the hand that feeds you. "I'll have it sent right away."

"Thank you. Now, I need to talk to my brother."

Dr. Pierson clears his throat uncomfortably.

"Uh, about that. We had to... sedate your brother to calm him down. He was upsetting the other patients, we had no option -- "

"How long till the drugs wear off?"

"Perhaps it would be best if you waited until tomorrow. To be on the safe side."

Nathan can hardly swallow a nasty comment about the inconvenience of accidentally picking out the only clinic practicing Dark Age medicine. Instead, he says aloud: "Very well. And Doctor, next time ask me _before _changing Peter's medication."

* * *

"Nathan, there's something I need to tell you," Peter launches into an anxious explanation the moment he has the receiver in his grasp, "Something incredible happened yesterday when I was painting. Remember how this guy Isaac can paint the future? Remember how I told you I could do it, too, when I was with him and we were tryin' to find out more about the cheerleader...? And there was this other time even before that, when I was in the hospital... but anyway... I uh think I did it again. I don't even remember painting the picture... it just... I just painted it. It's got to mean something."

"Well here's a question, Pete," Nathan says calmly. "How do you know you've painted the future and not just your dream landscape or something?"

Peter is slightly taken aback, and Nathan knows damn well why. But he recovers quickly.

"It's different, okay? Like I said, I can hardly remember I painted any of it. And I can't even paint, not like that, anyway. But don't you realize what this means? I could do it even though Isaac wasn't anywhere near and I wasn't even _trying_. Maybe if I practice a bit, I could--"

"Would you stop sounding so damn excited about your death?" Nathan finally explodes. Peter is silenced immediately.

"I _saw_ the painting. I have the faxed copy right here on my table. What the hell is it with you, Pete? Didn't I tell you to drop all this crap for a while? Do you_ ever_ listen to me? Care to guess what your doctors think of your little art piece here?"

"Well they already think I'm suicidal and crazy, I don't see how this is gonna change anything."

"It's the difference between being drugged into oblivion or staying in control of yourself," Nathan says wryly. "Even you should get it by now."

"Maybe I'm learning to enjoy it," Peter says, feeling rebellious, the whisper of adrenaline throbbing in his veins getting louder and louder. "Maybe I'm beginning to give a damn about everything and starting to think about solely what's best for myself, like you do. I figured that if I'm gonna be locked in here for a small eternity, I might as well get comfortable, right?"

Nathan knows that Peter is just trying to bait him, because boy he has a chip on his shoulder and justifiably so.

"I've already told the staff to cut your meds down. You are not getting an easy high anymore."

"You just _have_ to take fun out of everything?"

"I have my principles to uphold."

Peter sighs, desperately trying to come up with a working strategy.

"The whole deal about painting the future thing... I think we're supposed to know what's coming so we can change it. I mean, what's the point otherwise?"

There is no point whatsoever, Nathan muses. "What do you think I'm doing right now? Damn, Pete, I'm trying to protect you, even though you're bent on making it next to impossible. You've just given me one more reason to keep you there. That painting you painted... it shows you shot dead. Right through the head."

"How do you know leaving me here is not what's gonna get me killed?"

"Last time I checked, they don't allow guns in there," Nathan comments.

"Please. You've seen what's happening around us, the things we can do. The things other people can do. No place is safe, okay? It's about what we _do_, not where we are. It's about choices."

"Exactly. And I'm _choosing_ to dothe right thing here and now."

"Nathan, don't you understand? I'm saying that you can't protect me by locking me up. If you really want to help me, you need to help me make sense of this painting, find out when it's gonna happen and how."

"You're dead in it. There is no sense in that."

"That Isaac's painting you ruined, it showed me dead, too. I _was_ dead. But I came back because of this girl, Claire, and her healing ability. Don't you see? The paintings show only part of the truth, and even that can be changed."

"So you're saying I should let you get yourself killed again and trust that someone with regenerating power miraculously passes you by while you're pushing up daisies?" Nathan asks, partly amused that his brother has the nerve to suggest something like that.

"No, what I've been trying to tell you all along is that if I get a hang of this, I might be able to heal without Claire being near me, just like I could paint the future without Isaac. But I can't practice here, because the moment my mind gets a bit clearer they pump me up with another dose."

"You can't and you won't practice there simply because that is out of question," Nathan says with determination.

"Please, Nathan. Help me." It's a sincere, desperate plea and Nathan is _this_ close of giving in.

"I'm already helping you out the best I can. I'm sorry, Pete, but you're not getting out."

* * *

That night, Peter starts scraping together an escape plan.

* * *


	5. Chapter 5

**Characters:** Peter and Nathan Petrelli, the entire clan Petrelli (Angela, Heidi, Simon, Monty and Claire) in later chapters.

**Rating: T** If you're old enough to watch the series, you should be old enough to read this, too.

**A/N:** Inspired by Nathan's line in the Fix. "I could have my mentally ill brother detained for his own safety."

**Reviews and comments are extremely welcome.**

* * *

The tendency to do the unexpected is what sets Peter apart from his brother. Nathan does what is expected of him, and more. He strives to excel himself in every aspect of his life. Rocketing to the top leaves no door for unpredictability. Nathan is more than willing to make that sacrifice.

Peter, on the other hand, has no objection to taking the occasional leap of faith.

* * *

5.

Afternoon finds Peter sitting alone in the music room. It's the place reserved for music therapy sessions - thus the name - and some other activities as well, but it also serves as a general hangout whenever it's not booked for duty. Peter recognizes the setting ideal, because outside the therapy hours nobody ever seems to stumble in here, and he can really use the privacy for his own purposes. Strangely enough, he feels he is surrounded by invisible eyes in his personal room made for one, well based on the knowledge that the staff would never leave them unsupervised without hidden security cameras in every possible and impossible angle, as much as on drug-induced paranoia. Of course there is a high probability factor for this room being riddled with cameras, too, but Peter is less intimidated by the idea of being monitored in a more public place. After all, it's easier to accept the security cameras in a bank than in your bedroom.

The poppy red rocking chair has become his refugee for two days in a row. It's so delightfully out of place in the world of forced harmony and order, even if Palmwood Care is nothing compared to the antiseptic atmosphere of a public mental hospital. There is something magical in clinging to the unconventionalities that are a rare treat on a diet built on routines. It is as if the remnants of his old life are in his grasp as long as he refuses to belong. Peter can already sense the cracks in his passive resistance, the first signs of wishing to settle down and simply letting go. And that scares him more than anything.

Hospitalization. From his not-so-distant days as a nurse Peter can recall how it takes different amounts of time for each patient to grow accustomed to their role, to become comfortable with it. How the desperate power struggle for autonomy is finally replaced by the acceptance of handing over your fate to a complete stranger. Peter is mortally afraid of giving in to that desire, and that is why he needs to break out before that can ever happen.

Unfortunately Peter has never been much of a planner, which is obvious just by looking at his mess of a life. Improvising is his tool of a trade. But it's kind of hard to improvise your way out of the front door that stays locked at all times, Peter concludes grimly. He needs a damn plan, and a flawless one while at it.

* * *

Ironically, the idea hits him next day in the middle of yet another psychological evaluation session.

The resident psychologist, a stern-looking woman with mousy hair and a line for a mouth, hands him the next form to further prove his mental instability. Peter yawns, more bored than tired, and glances the woman pleadingly.

"Could we have a short break or something?"

"That's the last form today," Ms. Townes-Worthington says unsympathetically, glancing her watch. "The quicker you are done with it, the quicker you are free to return to your room."

"What a treat," Peter mutters under his breath, earning a mildly irritated look from the psychologist. "This is ten pages worth of questions. _More_ than ten."

"You better get started, then."

"Five minutes?"

"For your information, I am already late for my schedule. Your stalling does not help at all."

"Three? Please?"

Ms. Townes-Worthington gives Peter the eye.

"Three minutes."

"Thank you."

Peter yawns again, deserting his chair in favor of heading for the door.

"Bathroom."

"_Three_ minutes," she reminds him.

Peter doesn't need to use the restroom, but he certainly needs the break. He wanders aimlessly in the corridor for three and half minutes (viva la revolucion!), preparing himself to the torture served in the form of seemingly endless questions.

Peter takes a breather, returns back inside and starts ticking off the empty squares. Several minutes pass by in silence, disturbed only by the frequent scratch from his pencil. Then Peter notices something that brings him to an abrupt stop.

"I made a mistake here. I need an eraser," he says apologetically, conjuring his best innocent face, enough to put puppy dogs in shame.

Ms. Townes-Worthington, however, is not impressed. "Why?"

"I accidentally marked _Yes_ instead of _No_. I need to change it."

"I don't have eraser," she states dully.

"What? But I - I need to change this."

"Just underline the other box."

"How can you tell later which one I meant?" Peter asks, tugging his bangs behind his ear - a very short-lived solution at best, but it's the habit that counts.

"Peter, we really don't have time for you acting up," Ms. Townes-Worthington says in a tone which can be only interpreted as condescending. She fingers her watch accusingly.

"Acting up?" Peter's eyebrows threaten to touch his hairline. How on earth an attempt to be honest equals acting up, completely escapes him. "Okay. Let's just pretend that I'm a huge fan of animal torture," he shrugs casually.

The psychologist's eyes narrow, but she chooses not to say anything.

A moment later Peter makes another mistake out of carelessness. He answers "Yes" to '_Have you ever injured yourself physically on purpose?_' Peter opens his mouth, ready to plea and beg for permission to go and find an entire collection of rubbers when a thought strikes him. Palmwood Care can undoubtedly provide sufficient first aid in the case of an unfortunate accident, but any serious injury needs to be treated somewhere else - a real hospital. And somewhere else is exactly where Peter plans to be.

Suddenly much less concerned about accurate test answers than mere moment ago, Peter starts to mark the boxes at random. After four minutes of furious scribbling, he finally slides the questionnaire over the table.

"I'm done."

"Good. That's all for today." She offers him a tight smile, piling the papers inside the light brown leather folder she always carries with her like an extension of her body.

Peter fakes a smile back and walks out of the room, all the while thinking about his newly-formed plan.

* * *

Couple of hours pass by and Peter to manages to come up with the full details. He reasons that the short period right after the dinner is probably his best shot, since the kitchen staff is busy with collecting plates and the nurses are shepherding the medication queue. Even so, Peter knows he has no time to waste.

6pm arrives all too soon that day. Peter follows the sound of the dinner bell into downstairs, and takes his place in the line. He grabs a plate full of something remotely eatable (the menu specifically _claims_ it's chicken with steamed broccoli and carrots, although it's impossible to tell by the looks alone) and allows his feet to carry him to a vacant table. Peter's appetite is non-existent, but he tries to swallow a few mouthfuls anyway, if only to avoid raising suspicion. He pushes the carrots aside - he suspects those are carrots, because orange broccoli would feel just wrong - and risks another bite of chicken. It has no flavor whatsoever, but at least it's not bad.

Peter glances around him. The other patients are eating with gusto, seemingly oblivious to anything except the meal in front of them. Nobody bothers with conversation. Peter knows better than to start one - those who can't resist the sudden desire of delivering dinner monologues are quickly subdued either by the collective of apathetic diners or the drugs - or both.

Peter keeps on nibbling his food absently. He hopes that nobody notices how his hands are shaking with anticipation or how his eyes are darting nervously from one person to another, keeping headcount and taking mental notes of postures and distances. He realizes the insanity of over-analyzing, but he can't prevent himself from doing it anyway. His plan does not involve brilliant groundwork or a clever backup strategy in case that something goes awry and the karma police is out there to bust him. It's little more than improvising with the benefit of second thoughts. As it is, it's quite a statement to call it a plan. Even half a plan sounds like a stretch.

People around him start abandoning their chairs and Peter knows it's now or never. He stands up and grabs the dull, lonely knife lying innocently in front of him, marveling it for a second or two before promptly thrusting it into his stomach with all his might.

Peter's first thought is that is hurts less than he expected. But after the initial shock dissolves and the real, raw pain kicks in, the sensation robs the air out of his lungs and forces him to seek the comfort of the floor. With horrid fascination, he stares the enlarging dark stain that now adorns his dressing gown, threatening to take over his hospital blues with deep red. The multitude of raised voices dissolves into somewhat distant hum in the back of his mind. And then strong arms lift him back to his feet and drag him away from the dining hall. Peter catches snippets of barked commands and questions nobody seems to be willing to answer.

"How did he -- ?"

"Put him on the bed!"

"How much blood -- ?"

"Should we remove --?"

"Someone should call -- "

"-- already on the way."

Before Peter knows, he is restrained, unable to move his hands and legs. He tries to lie still, but the blinding ache in his abdomen makes his body twitch against his will, sending him on an even more intense trip to Painsville. He bites his lower lip not to scream out loud. The taste of iron and salt fills his mouth. The staff is swarming around him like drones sizing up a particularly juicy fruit. Peter recognizes some of them by name - Dr. Pierson hiding in the back, looking pale and grim... Ms. Townes-Worthington, ever too busy to take part in the show, but not too busy to gape, apparently... nurse Whithers, a soothing smile on her face - yes, a _smile_. And suddenly Peter hears - or rather feels - a motherly voice inside his mind.

_You are going to be fine, dear. You are just tired. Very sleepy. You want to close your eyes and fall asleep. Sleep. Sleep._

It's a suggestion, plea even, rather than an order, but very demanding nevertheless. Peter is more than happy to oblige.

* * *

A single phone call is all that it takes for Nathan to find one hundred good reasons to give up his last chance to outsmart both Dena Allen and Daniel Doyle in a live television debate that evening.

Lately, Nathan has adopted a habit to expect for bad news every time his cell phone tone betrays the caller as Dr. Pierson from Palmwood Care. But no amount of pessimism can prepare him for the worst case scenario.

Dr. Pierson sounds genuinely sorry. The call is short and quick to the point. No further explanations asked, and none are given.

Nathan can recall only a handful of occasions he has been beyond himself with worry. Even his wife's accident and the agonizing hours spent in the hospital lobby, waiting for the news about the surgery, did not manage to inspire such fear in him. Sure, he was terrified. And yet it is nothing compared to what he's feeling right now.

It might have to do with the fact that after the car crash Nathan was too immersed in his guilt trip, and still in the shock about finding out he could fly (even if he rejected the idea in its absurdity, only to conveniently forget it later). These are the stock reasons Nathan would undoubtedly give himself if he would ever bother to stop and search for an explanation. But Nathan tries to stay away from wallowing in the past whenever it reeks even remotely of emotion.

All Nathan knows is that the most horrible moments in his life revolve around Peter and his inability to stay out of trouble. He is haunted by the flashes of his brother's latest escapades: Peter falling off the roof... Peter lying in his arms, unconscious... Peter in coma, burning with fever... a mental montage crowned with an image of his brother sprawled in a pool of blood, a knife buried deep in his stomach.

A single phone call is all that it takes for Nathan Petrelli, a man reluctant to embrace his ability and accept it as anything other than an unwelcome burden, to seek for the skies and break the sound barrier on a long, lonely flight from New York to Los Angeles.

* * *

Whatever sermon Nathan has prepared to give to the prodigal son of the Petrelli family, flies out of the window when he sees his brother lying helplessly in the hospital bed, his limbs restrained with sturdy leather straps. Peter is hardly half-conscious, still drowsy from the narcosis. Nathan can't tell if Peter even knows he's there.

The surgeon drops by to inform that the operation was without complications and that the split in Peter's spleen has been successfully treated.

"Thank you," Nathan says gruffly, not really paying attention. He waits until the surgeon takes the cue and leaves him alone with his brother. Nathan pulls a chair and is about to sit beside Peter, when an all-too-familiar voice paralyzes him to the spot.

"Glad you could join us, Nathan," Angela announces briskly, carrying a coffee mug in her right hand and a purse and a women's magazine in the left. "Coffee?"

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**A/N**: I'd like to take the opportunity to say thank you to everyone who's reviewed this story so far. It means a lot to me and gives this warm fuzzy feeling. :-) It also gives a reason to come up with new updates at faster pace.

Sandy - Thank you for taking the time to correct my mistakes. I updated the earlier chapters to fix those errors (I always modify older chapters whenever I post a new one, anyway :-) ) Now if only I could get someone to point out the rest... :-P Unfortunately I am blind for my own errors, and notice them only through time and even then it takes some luck to spot them. I _do_ proofread my chapters myself several times before posting, but as you can see, it does not work very well. Using OpenOffice's spell check function is good for catching the typos, but when it comes to grammar, I'm pretty much on my own. Even the websites can provide only a little help with that problem. My hope lies in finding a beta reader, but so far I've been unsuccessful. In any case, big thank you for your help and honesty. Much appreciated. :-)

Polly - love your comments. Hopefully you update your own story soon, my fingers are itching for some quality fiction. :-)

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